Quake ]|[ Arena : Hell's Gate
by Punko McMac
Summary: Four gladiators and a few cosmic voyeurs witness the violent and dramatic battle at Hell's Gate...


Quake III Arena: Hell's Gate   
By Punko McMac 

Gladiators: Razor, Gorre, Ranger, Cadavre   
Rating: R - there's a little cussin', some disturbing descriptions, and it gets pretty gory at parts 

Quake III Arena is owned by iD software. Please don't sue, I'm a big fan! Nyuck nyuck nyuck... (actually, it's a really well done game. The ID model is bee-yatchin')   


-{o}- -{o}-   


Well, its happenin' again. I was sitting in the Gladiator's Barracks, a smokey place where we rest between matches. Sometimes I wonder if th' barracks are even there, it all seems so hazy and hard to remember when we're there. Ah well, when a match starts, little things like that go by the wayside. Yes, the match...that's what's happening again. That familiar swirling feeling inside, like my guts are being stirred, and then BAM! A flash a' light, a weightless feeling, an impossible noise, and ag, I go blind. Every one does when they're 'ported. Then my sight returns, and I'm standing in a fading pillar of light. No...energy. The Vadrigar have teleported me...teleported us into another match. Us being the gladiators. Sometimes it's three or four or six, but it's always enough to make it interestin' for those cosmic voyeurs. I hear the same strange noise three times. Looks like I'm gonna have company, three poor bastards to dodge.   
Maybe I should tell you about m'self. Name's Razor, mates. There was a time when I fought for the peoples a' Earth against the Strogg invasion. See, while the marines went off to fight 'em on their home turf, they did the same to us. So me an' my biker gang, the Roto-ryders, defended the peoples a' Australia, God bless e'ry one of 'em. Occasionally we'd go head to head with bastards what turned traitor and tried selling the human race out to the Stroggs, and once we even went up against this biker gang that refused to fight at all, just take advantage of defenseless people. We put an end t' them. Well, I think we did. The big rumble a'tween our two gangs was interrupted by a para-squad of Stroggo troops, and so it turned into a three-way blood bath, and I got yanked by the Vadrigar near's the end for my 'fearlessness and prowess in battle'. Last I saw we were winnin', then poof, I get the galactic bugger and I'm here. Whoopy.   
This arena's none too familiar t' me. Everything's got a red shimmer, and the air is stifling, hot. I'm standing at the foot of a bridge that goes up into what looks like a tower. I can see a rocket launcher floating, spinning in the tower. Got to get it before anyone else if I'm gonna get through this more 'r less unscathed. So I hoof it up the bridge. It's narrow, really narrow. I have to be careful not to fall off, cause on either side is a bottomless pit the Vadrigar are so bleedin' fond of, filled with that damn fog of death, that red swirling mass of smoke that strips away flesh and dissolves bone. I'm almost at the top of the bridge, and I hear a familiar whump-whump-whump sound. Uh-oh, incoming... 

*** *** *** 

I am the greatest warrior in the arenas. Others say different, but they know I am the best in their trembling hearts. Songs are sung about me, for I am undefeatable. They call me Gorre, grand clone of Visor, but the truth is I'm the original. No one admits it, not even Visor, not even the Masters, but I am. It doesn't matter, all that matters is adding more scratches to my tally of victory. I am brought to the arena in that familiar pillar of light, same as always, and I check my HUD. It tells me I have three opponents, three unworthy scrappers who think they can hold a candle to me. HAH!   
It looks like the masters have brought us to Xaero's preferred training ground, Hell's Gate. Nicks and grooves from gun-fire are permanently imbedded in the gate's walls, chipped in so often that the Masters have given up on repairing them. Haha, I shall add more to the walls, more so that even Xaero! My cybernetics are humming, giving me read-outs and reports on the environment. Air condition, wind speed, current state of bodily activity, etc. I tap a key on my belt, and a little display pops up on the screen inside my mask, overlayed on my vision. The onboard computer's keyed to my optic nerves and deliberate facial twitches, and through a little twitch of my mouth and a strain of my left eye, I've increased the adrenaline flow in my body 15%. Let the brawlers come, I am ready. Well, almost. All I need is a weapon.   
I run through this gate, picking a plasma-gun from the air, and I ready it for combat. My armored boot touches a bounce pad, and I am sent into the air with a hiss of anti gravity straining against normal gravity. The two were never meant to gel. I see a warrior running up the central bridge to Xaero's meditation tower, to the rocket launcher. Time to put my weapon to use; it's a virgin no more. My cybernetic mask targets this one with a familiar red circle, indicating the best possible target-point on him to shoot. Whump-whump-whump, the small cloud-like balls of energy fly out of my gun, sailing through the air. I see the warrior turn to face the noise...it is Razor, fighter for the people from Earth. His unhappy expression gives me a jolt of pride, his body flying through the arch of the tower continues that pride. It will be a good hunt... 

*** *** *** 

I was once a real man. I once had a name. But those had to be sacrificed, all had to be sacrificed. When the Chitinid menace arose, troops from all over Earth and Mars were chosen. Only the best would make it, and only the best did. We were trained for Operation Quake; we would be sent through the slip-gates to the far reaches of the galaxy in some hope that we could destroy the Chitinids once and for all. They had struck once before, nearly wiping humanity out many decades before, and they had returned to finish the job...but WE would stop them. Hundreds of men and women were trained to become Rangers, warriors who would go through the dimensional ranges to wipe out any evil we found, in hopes that a handful of us would come in contact with the ones facing us. I remember my friends, Rangers too, who gave up their names, their lives, to fight. Morph, Quark, Creed, Tool, Bro, Sphinx and his wife Mustang, so many friends who gave up their real names for single code-names easy to remember in the field. Mine was...something. Through my journies I've had to give up a lot, sacrifice a lot...even my own name. Names, actually, as I've even lost my code-name to realms past. I'm just Ranger now, but I'm proud to say that I think I made a difference. I killed the Chitinid queen-mother, Shub Niggurath, impossible to defeat. The she-beast had thrown wave after wave of foul creatures and corrupted terrans at Earths forces, me included. But somehow I triumphed, I spread her innards all over her lava-pit nest.   
But alas, after that battle I couldn't find my way home. We were told before Operation Quake was set in motion that we would never see Earth again, but I had always hoped things would turn out; that I might be granted my name back, get to see my daughter. I Well, that hope went in the shitter. After my great struggle, all that waited for me was more slipgates and new worlaughter. I hoped that I'd make it back to see her eleventh birthday. Well, that hope went in the shitter. After my great struggle, all that waited for me was more slipgates and new worlds| ‚fHx**Bß? ¶N* *+@*t.Ä®s.**tHm'"© >º /-*tN*%J\è` ƒB-‚fJ-µ"g p ` full of remnants of Shub Niggurath's forces and new, inhospitable creatures who were just as eager to see me dead. Eventually, I met up with old Shub-o's last attempt at creating a humanoid warrior, Dark Reaver Lagond. We had one helluva battle, me and that demonic bitch, but like I always say, from under a pile of my bleeding enemies I come out on top. After that battle, the Vadrigar thought I'd make a worthy addition to their hall of gladiators. So now I face another enemy, another Shub Niggurath.   
Today it looks like my enemy, the Vadrigar, have me and three others lined up for the big frag-fest. I can see Razor running up a bridge; he's a good guy. He fought against an alien invasion I hear, fought to protect Earth from alien cyborgs. Good to know after all we Rangers gave up there was still another alien species just waiting to take a swing at Earth. I won't fire at him, not yet. He's got his back turned to me, and for a fellow human, I won't blow his brains out the front of his head...no, I have honor, we had honor. I'll blow 'em out the back, heheheh. Damn, some one's beat me to it. That pompous ass Gorre, royal master of the self-involvement. He's firin' off some plasma shots, and ...ouch, Razor took a full three shots square in the back. Tough luck, but if I'M gonna survive, I need more'n a machinegun... 

*** *** *** 

These stupid shits. They all don't get it. None of them do. They waste their time trying in vain to fight for honor, for glory, for revenge against foes long gone but still hated. Worthless, stupid. What good is honor? Name one thing honor has ever brought about that was worth fuck anything. Me? I fight for the fight. I fight for the sake of vital organs, just screaming to be let out from their skin prisons. I'm more than happy to oblige, letting them burst forth from the warriors and brawlers I mow down. I myself look worse than a lot of people I've killed. My name is Cadavre, but it used to be Weems, Henry Weems. I remember the day I woke up well. I was a doctor, Dr. Weems, Doctor Henry Weems: life saver. Sounds so weird, doesn't it? Well, not yet, but it will. I worked so hard to put guts back into people, to stitch them up good as new after god knows what accident or attack. I did it for so long, but every night I swore it would be the last, I couldn't keep handling those innards, keep forcing them into those sacks of...human. To satisfy my heroic urges, I disected stray animals and the occasional hobo alive, freeing their insides, but it wasn't enough. Cops don't arrest the occasional crook in their spare-time. But that was all I could do, because of people's inhibitions about internal freedom. Bah, fuckin' facists.   
But one day it hit me...I would go from the fascist to the freedom fighter. I would stop imprisoning and start liberating. So the day after I came up with this little revelation I stormed through my hospital with two hatchets, a coil of razor-wire, and a gas-powered chainsaw, and I freed so many...it was beautiful. Nurses, visitors, the ill and infirm, all jails, and I staged a mass prison break. The cops caught me not long after I draped hollowed out torso trunks outside the hospital windows. They didn't find it funny when I told them I was redecorating. Bah, they had no sense of humor. By my execution, I'd killed 41 civilians, 3 cops, 2 prison guards, 7 inmates, and 4 custodians from one establishment or another. It's amazing what a man on a mission can do. Well, a man on a mission carrying sharp things. I staged a little humorous gag for my electrocution, but I wasn't around to see it totally. The night before, I concocted a couple of home-made "fire crackers" and swallowed them. When they zapped me, the electricity set off the explosives, decorating the audience with my insides. After all, I had one last chance for liberation, I had to do it. I'm a hero. HAHAHAhahaha.   
These Vadrigar fucks thought I'd make the perfect addition to their freak show, so they 'raised' me from the dead, re-ignited that little murderous spark in me, and brought me back. Granted, my slick guts are still hangin' out, but I manage. I hate it here, though. No one has a sense of humor here, either. No one finds it funny when I fill their bunks up with my blood, or hide a bit of intestine in their food. It regenerates back of course, the Vad's wouldn't want to lose their favorite sick-o, but I'd appreciate it if SOMEONE found my humor funny. And now I gotta fight in another goddamn match, another pointless battle of 'honor'. It's okay though. I see the bright side through it all. I get to free more and more organs with each match, even if they do get re-imprisoned when the Vad's bring the gladiators back, in perfect health, with none of their guts hanging out. Sometimes I feel fucking gypp'd. Ah, well. Such is un-life. Lessee, There's that self-infatuated turd Gorre, who I will turn into real gore; there's Razor, that up-with-people aussie with a serious good-guy bullshit routine; and...the space cadet who doesn't even know his own name. Hell, I don't even know his name, but only because I don't care. I whip out my gauntlet, a little spiked, spinning-buzzsaw tool the Vad's give us for close combat. Well, time to free some slick willies...   


*** *** ***   


"The four combatants are scurrying around, doing a beautiful dance of destruction. Razor was the first to be injured, but he quickly found his precious rocket launcher, and he too joined the fray equal. Hmm. The undead one seems to refuse any traditional weapons and favor our little gift to the gladiators. Watch as he tears into that one, Ranger...what is he screaming?"   
"Fuck."   
"Aah, yes. They do that alot, it seems, as they die. Ah! Haha, Gorre seems to be doing well. That sneek-attack on Cadavre was well done. The undead one did not even see it coming."   
"Quite impressive, but not as much so as his sire, Visor."   
"Yes, the tier-master may have a skilled clone, but it is he who is the better."   
"Hmm, interesting. Razor and Ranger seem to have combined forces against Cadavre. An interesting tactic, considering the structure of the free-for-all."   
"It will not last. And if it does, some one will take advantage of that distraction." 

*** *** *** 

"FUUU-U-U-A-AAAAaaack--*!!!" screamed Ranger as Cadavre forced the spinning blades of the gauntlet through his abdomen. The armor he had gathered had been damaged by rocket fire from Razor, and he had not seen the walking corpse coming until the blade was slicing through his stomach lining. He let out a gurgle and collapsed in a heap as Cadavre smiled, pulling the gore-streaked gauntlet free. He hammered it with his greasy fist, shaking the blood off. Suddenly, a wave of plasma washed over his area, and he dove for cover.   
"Goddamnit! Goo-ooorre, nice try, but you know it'll take more than that to free me." A cacophony of whump-whump-whump-whump was the only reply Cadavre got. The plasma slammed into the arch he stood in, and he cursed as he drew his machine gun. How boring, he though, why do these fuckshits insist on using guns when gauntlets are so much more personal. He spun around the corner to find...nothing. Gorre had dived into a chamber to gather ammunition, leaving Cadavre alone in the clearing, or so he thought.   
Razor appeared on an overhead ledge, brandishing his rocket launcher. He fired one round, blasting Cadavre in the face as the undead one looked up. Blood and bone flew as his cold, ripped face burst, leaving a gory mass to curse at Razor and return fire. Suddenly, in mid-cuss, Cadavre was interrupted by a dull, aching feeling in his knee, followed by a horrible feeling of blazing piercing pain. Ranger stood across the bridged chasm on the other ledge holding a rail-gun. He had just put a depleted uranium slug through Cadavre's leg. The bloated zombie tried to run, but found each step ebbing at his clarity, his ability to think. Even an undead fiend such as himself could only take so much. Even grimacing in pain hurt, probably due to the fact that the muscles in his face had been ruptured by Razor's attack.   
  
Gorre jumped down the bridge, almost unnoticed by the warring gladiators. He glanced at the zombie, his mask registering 73% decrease in his vitality (as strange as that sounded). He watched the Australian run out of rockets after only a couple of shots and switch to a plasma gun, still barraging Cadavre. No matter, let them have their revenge on the fiendish psychopath. He would be the winner of this match. He rolled into the basement of the gate as a few stray plasma bolts rained on the bridge. He stood up, checked his new rocket launcher, and smirked beneath his mask. *Oops*, he thoy plasma bolts rained on the bridge. He stood up, checked his new rocket launcher, and smirked beneath his mask. *Oops,* he thought, as his blood flow increased 7%. *Damn controls, keyed to my mouth. I so much as cough and my suit will make me piss myself,* he thought, and let out a deep, metallic chuckle. He stepped forward, through the holographic armor, and watched as the armor bec chuckle. He stepped forward, through the holographic armor, and watched as the armor bec armor, and watched as the armor became real around his chest, and then disappeared, becoming invisible against his suit. He ran around the corner of the basement, jumping on a bounce-pad. He felt that rush of grav/anit-grav, and he was landing on the walkway leading to the ledge. Even as the two other combatants shredded Cadavre in a hail of plasma and rail-gun shots, he ran, planning out his actions and letting his suit do the aiming work. He fired one rocket at the near dead Cadavre, reading 3% left on the zombie's vitality, barely enough to stand. As Cadavre blew apart into wet chunks of meat, Gorre fired two rockets then in Ranger's direction, distracting him. Then he turned his attention to Razor. 

*Yes! Got that sick freak!* thought Ranger. His railgun had turned that already bleeding mess of a face into what looked like an exploded melon as Razor had pumped plasma bolt after plasma bolt into that undead body. Now it was time to end the little team-up, and time to rack up another frag. *Waitaminute...* he thought. He hadn't gotten credit for that frag, for Cadavre's death. Two rockets answered his confusion, and he knew that Gorre had entered this little fracas. His shoulder stung as little bits of marble slapped at it, but he ignored it and brought up his railgun to put a slug in Gorre. CLICK. Empty. He cursed and threw down the railgun. Whipping out the machinegun, he started firing, but he knew that from this range, the bullets were useless. Ranger watched as an explosion sent Razor flying from his ledge, and Gorre laughed. Razor sailed over the walk way, almost into the pit, but he caught on to the bridge with one hand. Trying to pull himself up, his eyes fell to Ranger. Ranger thought, for a second, of firing on the freedom-fighter, but his soldier's honor got the better of him. He backed up, and prepared to jump. One, two, three steps running, and he was jumping across that pit, that fog of death. But it was too late.   
  
Gorre cheered to himself as his rocket smashed into the wall behind Razor. The warrior was sent flying. Gorre cursed to himself for a second; if Razor fell into that pit, the frag wouldn't count! But thankfully, the resilient Australian caught hold of the thin bridge with one hand. He hung there, staring to Ranger for help. *Haha! No help for the damned,* thought Gorre as he raised his launcher. To his surprise, Ranger bounded and took a leap across the chasm. Too late though. Gorre fired a rocket and watched with gleeful anticipation as it ripped through the hot air, leaving a trail of steam. It screamed towards the bridge, and he cursed to himself, afraid it would miss. It did, but just barely; the rocket impacted just one foot too high, and Razor's entire forearm was blown to chunks. He screamed a shocked, agonized scream, part for his injury, and part for his fate... 

"Watch now as he falls...hahaha."   
"Interesting how our atmosphere in the correct spots proves an excellent hazard."   
"Stop bantering and watch..."   


*** *** *** 

Gorre went on to win that match. They had all been returned to their places of resting, Gorre to the cyborg's garage-hangout, Cadavre to the butcher-house he called a home, and Razor and Ranger to the main warriors bunks. The memories of death always gave Razor nightmares the night after a battle, along with the fact that for the rest of eternity, until the Vadrigar grew tired of him, he would face death over and over again. But this time was different. He'd heard from some combatants what it was like to fall into the fog, but he himself had never befallen that fate.   
He remembered falling, clutching at his bloody stump elbow, feeling a faint stinging all over. That faint stinging grew into a maddening heat, an infernal sensation the likes of which man was not meant to feel. He felt patches of his skin flay away as he fell, his eyes turn into pools of fluid in their sockets, his teeth crack and shatter. He was alive as his muscles putrefied and bled away into the fog as he fell, was alive as his internal organs burst and tore inside him, was alive as his heart spontaneously combusted in his chest and his brains sizzled against the inside of his shattering skull. He was alive through all this, at no point losing consciousness. He felt it all until all that was left was his consciousness, floating, rising back up to the arena floor. 

It was a memory that would haunt his worst nightmares, a fear snake that would coil around his spine during matches in fog-filled arenas. But still, he would go on. Death would not stop Razor, for he had battles to fight, honor to avenge. The ghosts of Strogg battles long over would be put down in the heat of battle. 

He would overcome. He was a gladiator.   
  
  
  



End file.
